


First Meeting

by animefreak



Category: Agent Pendergast Series - Douglas Preston & Lincoln Child
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-06
Updated: 2014-10-06
Packaged: 2018-02-20 02:56:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,206
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2412407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/animefreak/pseuds/animefreak
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Agent Pendergast meets a woman he thinks Constance should get to know.</p>
            </blockquote>





	First Meeting

The elegant silver wraith Rolls Royce pulled into the sheltered area near the side entrance to the restored mansion on Riverside Drive. Proctor, the chauffeur and general assistant, exited the vehicle, going to the passenger door and opening it. His employer, a tall, slender gentleman clad in funeral black stepped out, straightening his coat before turning to assist his very proper driver to unload a long black bag from the rear seat of the car.

They carried the suspiciously human shaped bag between them, entering the house and taking the back stairs up to the second floor where they deposited the item on a bed in one of the many bedrooms. Proctor left the final disposition of what was indeed a body to his employer, Aloysius Pendergast. 

Unzipping the bag revealed a pale, black haired woman in her early thirties. He checked her pulse. Inconclusive. Yet after two days there was no sign of decay setting in. He would have to trust in her own evaluation of her condition and hope for the best. Checking his watch, he noted that fifty-three hours had elapsed since the fusillade of bullets took her down. 

He eased the body bag out from under the woman, then pulled the sheet and duvet up over her, noting that the wounds were nearly healed. A part of him shuddered in horror at that, knowing his great-uncle had no hand in her situation, yet concerned all the same. 

He left her to rest and went to check on his ward, Constance Greene, whom he found sitting in the library reading. “Good afternoon, Constance.”

The auburn haired young woman looked up, Greene eyes dark in the dimly lit room. She smiled. “Aloysius,” she greeted him. “I was not aware you had returned. Did your activities meet with success?”

Pendergast was familiar with her more formal mode of speech, in fact, found it soothing compared to the slang ridden language of the current day. “Moderately,” he responded as he took a seat in one of the comfortable leather covered wing chairs before the fire. His seat faced hers and it was in companionable silence that Proctor found them a few moments later to bring them refreshments. 

Soothing silence reigned between them for several moments before the man spoke again. “You are aware that I have had some concern about you should my line of work remove me from my current position as your guardian,” he opened the conversation abruptly, surprising his companion.

Constance regarded him curiously. “I am capable of taking care of myself,” she told him, her tone dry. She believed she had more than proven her capability to function in the modern world during her pursuit and final destruction of Diogenes Pendergast. 

“I do not dispute that,” he assured her, his mellow Southern accent deepening as it frequently did when the subject matter touched him deeply. He regretted his brother’s death, understanding that Constance’s actions were realistic and probably necessary considering how she had been manipulated. Her reaction to being seduced and then taunted to commit suicide was understandable given her background. Both he and Diogenes had badly underestimated the strength of mind that led to her survival as an experiment carried out by their great uncle Antoine, also known as the nineteenth century serial killer, Dr. Enoch Leng. 

He sipped his glass of sherry for a moment before continuing. “I met a woman whose situation, while not identical to yours, is on some levels similar.”

His companion’s eyebrows rose. “Someone else’s experiment?” Her tone continued dry although he was certain the idea disturbed her, as it should.

“No. Unless you consider genetic accident a form of experimentation by God.” The words felt odd in his mouth, yet attributing Dr. Cheri Yuconovich’s physical state to random genetic chance seemed even less attractive, although from a couple of her comments it was obvious she did not account herself the only such example of human longevity. 

“She helped you?”

Much as it pained him to admit it, on some levels, yes, Dr. Yuconovich had been far more help than he had anticipated when he met her. His nod answered the question. “She’s an archaeologist, holding degrees in both anthropology and archaeological forensics.”

“Another one?” A touch of humor to that question. Constance smiled. She liked Viola Maskelene, the British archaeologist they knew. She was aware of why Aloysius sent the woman way, but also knew that her guardian was repressing his feelings for her due to the dangers now in their lives. 

Pendergast smiled thinly. “I do seem to know quite a number of people in the field.” Nora Smithback, Margo Greene and Viola were just a few of the people he had encountered over the years who were in the profession. They had proved useful in his investigations and became friends. “Dr. Yuconovich is, perhaps, a little different than most as she is also a consummate professional where investigation is concerned.” He would leave it to Constance to find out more about the woman’s expertise in destructive fields.

Fbifbifbi

Upstairs, the woman on the bed took sucked in a deep, gasping breath of air, then another and another until her eyes opened and she sat up coughing. As the bedclothes slid off her torso, she noted her naked condition. “Great.” Then again, waking up in stiff, blood soaked clothing wasn’t all that comfortable. “Where the hell am I?”

She slid off the bed, noting it was tall and old fashioned, but comfortable. Winding the sheet around her she explored the room, locating a door leading to a bathroom. The deep, lion-footed tub was an anachronism. Bath. Wonderful concept. While the tub filled, she checked the other two doors. One led to the deeply carpeted, dimly lit hallway. Good, not a prisoner at the moment. The other opened onto a walk-in closet almost large enough to qualify as a dressing room. There, in solitary splendor, hung brand new clothing of her size and general looks: white cotton short sleeved t-shirt, black jeans, black denim jacket. Underthings were also provided in functional, basic cotton. Her moccasin boots, cleaned, lay across one of the empty shelves. 

“Damn. So, not a prisoner and provided for, sparsely.” Whoever brought her here, wherever here was, didn’t look like they intended to keep her for very long. She wasn’t certain whether that was reassuring or not. However, a hot bath was inviting and she was accepting the invitation.

As she was padding across the room, admiring the carpet, something beeped on the bedside table she’d previously ignored. For a moment she regarded the device blankly. Cell phone! With a grin she picked it up to see what the beep was all about. Ah, the battery power indicator showed low and not a phone charger in sight. However, there might be enough to make one call … or text.

Quickly she sent a note to the one number that might answer her questions before the battery died completely. The reply came in as she filled the tub with hot water. New York with an address and a query whether she needed rescue.

No. Two large cheeseburgers, large fries and a large Coke would settle a lot of her current issues. And a ride. The prompt response indicated about forty-five minutes to ride arrival, with the required food items.

Cheri settled into the hot water to soak for about ten minutes before washing her hair. Partially through the process she considered finding shears or scissors and just lopping most of it off. The bob had been very attractive on her. Of course, she’s also gone to a high priced hair dresser in Paris when she did that cut. She finished washing out the dirt and blood, checked her time and let the water out of the tub before the final rinse with cold water for the hair. No suds, no dirt, no blood; just clear water this time.

She reveled in the thick, thirsty pure cotton towels, wrapping her hair in one and herself in another before heading back to the clothes. Dressed, she had about ten minutes before her ride arrived to find the front door of the mansion. The hall outside her room led to a landing and a long sweep of stairs into a front hall filled with glass cases. 

Pendergast, alerted to Cheri’s awakening and leaving her room by Proctor, stood at the bottom of the stairs speaking softly to a red haired woman. They both looked up. Cheri had a vague impression of every period movie she’d ever seen where the debutante or lead female came descending the stairway to the admiration of the people waiting below. Yeah, right. She moved down the steps with caution, not knowing what to expect from the FBI agent or his very conservatively dressed companion.

“Dr. Yuconovich.”

She stopped and regarded him with a wry look. “Oh, surely you can remember my first name, Agent Pendergast. Dr. Yuconovich sounds so formal give what we survived.” If her emphasis on the word ‘survived’ was harsh, well, he could live with it, couldn’t he?

The pale eyes dropped from hers for a moment, turning to his companion. “She is a bit abrasive,” he cautioned.

“My dear, Special Agent, you haven’t seen abrasive.” She descended the final steps until she stood on the floor with the two of them. Regarding the red head, she revised her opinion of the young woman’s age upward. Something about the eyes said experience, sort of. “I’m Cheri Yuconovich.” She offered her hand in a friendly gesture.

Constance shot a look at her guardian before taking the offer and shaking hands. “Constance Greene. Aloysius is my guardian. He tells me you have a Doctorate in Anthropology.”

“I do. Several, actually, but they seem to wear out after fifty years or so. People think I’m making up the graduation date so I change it, go back and do a new dissertation and get a shiny new diploma.”

“Why did you object to Aloysius calling you by your title?” Constance was curious, although wary.

“The Ph.D. is only pertinent in academic circles, or maybe in the field to let people know who’s supposed to be in charge … or think they are. Outside of my field, not a lot of point unless it’s for self-aggrandizement. I have a lot of other interests and the title isn’t important to them.” She didn’t go into the last set of experiences with an Assistant Dean at the university she’d been working at, a man who thought even his colleagues were showing him less than his earned respect if they omitted the title when speaking to him.  
“And my ride should be here.” She pulled the phone out of her pocket. “By the way, thank you for retaining this for me,” she told Pendergast as the doorbell sounded. “That should be for me.”

“You are welcome to stay,” he offered.

Nearly at the door, she turned back to regard him curiously. “Why?”

It amazed her to see him seemingly at a loss for words. Neither the suave Southern gentleman nor the man of ruthless action she’d witnessed had struck her this way. She waited for an answer. 

“Perhaps you should let your ride know you will be a few moments and then join us in the library.” He gestured to the open door behind the two of them. 

Cheri did exactly that, cheerily greeting the curly haired young man who held out a bag from a fast food franchise. “Thank you!” She grabbed the bag and practically inhaled a hand full of French fries before explaining that she was running delayed. “I don’t think it will take long. Fifteen minutes tops, OK?”

“That’s fine, Dr. Yuconovich.”

She shook her head over being addressed that way, declining to say anything before closing the door and heading into the library. She stopped just inside the doorway, impressed in spite of her desire not to be. Walls full of books, floor to ceiling bookcases, and a comfortable gathering of chairs and end tables in front of a massive fireplace reminded her of other times and places. 

“I hope you don’t mind if I eat. Starving. One of the hazards,” she said cryptically as she took and empty seat and unwrapped one of the burgers out of which she took a huge bite and subsided into happy chewing. There were a lot of bad things to be said about fast food. Fortunately, taste was one of the things they hit perfectly most of the time. She waited in silence for someone else to start the conversation.

“You will recall I asked you about Dr. Enoch Leng,” Pendergast finally said.

In Leng’s case, the doctor title was medical. Cheri nodded. “You indicated you thought it had something to do with my longevity,” she prompted.

“Indeed. I am, of course, now certain that what Leng found and your own condition are not connected.”

“Glad we cleared that up.” Was that a glare from those nearly silver blue eyes? She had to admit she sometimes had that effect on people.

“On the other hand, I have benefitted from Dr. Leng’s experiments. I believe he thought it was a benefit.” Constance regarded their guest directly. “My sister, Mary Greene, was one of Dr. Leng’s victims in his search for an elixir to lengthen his life.”

Cheri felt her eyebrows rise slightly. A quick calculation put Constance Greene at rising a hundred and twenty years old, minimum. The woman looked to be no more than in her early twenties. A chronically slowed maturation process that could leave her alone in a world that was becoming progressively more difficult to hide that kind of difference in. She turned a curious look on Pendergast. Why had he taken in Leng’s experiment?

Constance answered the unspoken question. “Enoch Leng was also Antoine Pendergast, my guardian’s great-great uncle, I believe. Thus when he inherited the house and discovered my presence, he formally took guardianship so that he could help me adjust to the twenty-first century.”

Adjust? “I take it Leng didn’t make certain you knew what was going on in the world.”

“Not at all. My education consisted of reading,” she gestured to the books around them. “No newspapers, no television when it became available, no radio. He disapproved of all these things.”

“My relation disapproved of humanity,” Pendergast appended dryly. “I believe you understand why I wanted Constance to meet you.” His eyes searched her face, presumably for confirmation of her understanding.

Cheri swallowed, took a drink from her cup of soda and nodded. “Yeah, I think I get this. How old are you, exactly?” She addressed the question to Constance who answered her calmly. Over a hundred and thirty. “Wow. And your guardian is mid to late forties and is not inclined to live a careful life,” she added. “Mind you, neither am I so inclined.”  
“But so far, never permanent.”

He had her to rights there. “So, essentially, if anything happens to your guardian, I’m at least a constant point in the universe.” She demonstrated her understanding of the situation. “And I know a lot about hiding my tracks,” she added quietly. She turned her attention back to the tall fair man. “You could have just asked, you know.”

“You were … unconscious.”

“I was dead,” she contradicted him. “Well, mostly dead,” she amended and tried not to giggle or mutter the line ‘have fun storming the castle’. 

She noted Constance regarding her curiously. “Yes?”

“Is that really as satisfactory as your reactions indicate?

That did get a laugh. “I like hamburgers. This franchise makes really good cheeseburgers because they still use real cheese instead of pasteurized processed imitation cheese food,” she reeled off the words from memory. “Hot French fries are … a guilty pleasure. I’m your basic meat and potatoes sort … well, if you can consider blood rare steak and a completely loaded baked potato basic. Somehow I can’t imagine him,” she nodded to Pendergast, “eating at a fast food place unless he was on an assignment and it was the only thing available … nyah, not even then.”

“He does enjoy steak tartare.”

“Watch out for the eggs,” Cheri commented. Over the last couple of years, eggs without various contaminants had become rare. “OK. I need to check in with some people I occasionally work for. I’ll call and make time to get better acquainted. Is that acceptable?” She looked from one to the other wondering why she was going along with Pendergast’s idea. 

Correction, she knew exactly why she was doing this. Constance Greene had a couple of decades on her, but Cheri was herself blessed or cursed with a form of longevity that could be considered immortality. In her brief one hundred and twelve years, she already knew the grief of outliving people she loved: a sister passing at eighty-eight years, a brother who didn’t make it back from the German theater of operations in WWII, friends and colleagues who aged and died. Constance who looked no older than 25 was at least two decades older than Cheri and had a very, very long life in front of her. 

Maybe they’d never be close friends, but at least there would be someone who knew and understood, someone who might just be around as long as Constance would be. Sometimes even an enemy who understood was enough. 

She stood up to go, walked out to the car waiting for her and returned with a couple of black and silver business cards, only a toll free number written on the surface. “Here. You need me, this can always find me. It may take a while, but it will find me.”

“We dine at eight,” Pendergast told her as he accepted the card. On the back was a hand written note: Heroes for Hire. “Shall we expect you?”

“I’ll be here.”

Fbifbifbi

“Aloysius.”

“Yes?”

“Was she really dead?”

How to answer that? Scientifically, given what he had witnessed of her healing process, she could not have been dead. There was no decomposition, no decay, the cells of her body went into a hyper healing process he did not understand, literally repairing from the inside out, shoving the remaining bullets in her body out to the surface. He could not detect respiration or a pulse, yet he could not truly define her as dead. As far as mental activity was concerned, there was no equipment handy to test whether the brain still functioned during the process. “For all outward indications, yes,” he answered as best he could. 

“Magic?” Her voice implied disbelief and perhaps laughter.

He quoted a line he’d heard somewhere and did not feel like retrieving the reference. “Magic is just technology we don’t understand yet … perhaps that is the answer. Whatever it is, I would prefer to have her on our side rather than against us.”

Her nod agreed with him. “As you say, Aloysius, as you say.”

Note: I have had a Pendergast/Yuconovich scenario in my head for a couple of years now. This is not the original idea and it may go nowhere. But it seems logical that faced with a second case of longevity he might introduce Constance to the second one.


End file.
